


Great grows my yearning and desiring

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Basically The Beatles but now, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Insecurity, John's head is a messy one, M/M, Toxic Masculinity, author's an idiot, me thinks - Freeform, we know that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25596865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: John craves intimacy in his relationship but his head is a dark, chaotic place.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first time my rubbish goes viral, seemed like a good way to celebrate my birthday but now I've already had 3 nightmares and am sitting here like 🤣🤣🤣 and planning to move to Mexico, starting a new life with my only friend, a donkey called Banana, yolo
> 
> also this was intended to be a smutty one-shot but turned into 2 chapters of messy emotions (ft. my insomia and period) with nothing sexual at all
> 
> the title is from an English translation of Heine's poem called Nachtgedanken, one of my favourites, that one, but I didn't feel like creeping you out with German

It had always been like that. _He_ had always been like that. Up and shining one day only to gaze at the world around him with dead eyes the next. His mood always shifting as if his own head tried to outdo him. The fact that his home wasn't the coziest hadn't helped either. Sure, Mimi loved him, he knew that but she didn't have exactly the right knack for dealing with an emotional turmoil of a little boy or almost a grown man. 

He could still recall vividly her furrowed eyebrows whenever he was "throwing a tantrum" like she used to say. Her head shaking in disbelief, her mouth twitching and uttering words about his mum and dad. He didn't really understand at first. When he grew a tad older words about Lennons spurred him even more. He acted like he was feeling a huge rage but frankly said it was the easiest coping mechanism he managed to pull off. For years there were giant rows almost every day and he often wondered what would uncle George said. Would he understand?

Probably not he pondered bitterly, who could wrap their mind about his situation? His own parents didn't want him, his aunt claiming all bad behaviour came from his father's side but how could he possibly hate someone's whose blood float in his veins. Or, _even better_ , someone he hadn't ever seen in his whole life. Because that was it. He couldn't hate his dad, he could only hate himself and whenever Mimi said something about _typical Lennon-ish attitude_ it felt like pinch of salt to an open wound. 

He wished desperately to detest his mother. With her red hair, ocean smile and vibrant coloured dress. But he couldn't. And when she flew across the street to never sing again it felt like it was him flying and falling over and over again. Never getting a chance to rest. 

Once someone, probably Stu had shared with him a book of Greek Mythology and the story of Prometheus engulfed him. For 4 weeks straight he had nightmares of being bound while different people excised organs out of his body. It wasn't the pain that frightened him but the prospect of being tortured the following day. He hadn't seen their faces until the last night he found himself expecting the punishment. Except this time they didn't touch him, instead they they were prancing around, laughing and dancing. Never before had he so hopelessly wished to wake up. They all had his face.

Mimi had to shook him awake that night and he remembered sweaty T-shirt sticking to his torso. 

And then there was Paul. He liked to think of him as _his_ but he never voiced this thought as he had never voiced his insecurities. He company was soothing and John adored him, ached for those large eyes to see right through him and understand. Yet, in a typical Lennon's fashion as he, himself, used to say, absent-mindedly mimicking Mimi, he often kicked Paul, being too afraid he would leave if he treated him as he wanted to. 

_Softly, delicately, sensibly._

It happened to be a repeating theme in John's life. Trying to build up a wall so nobody would see the person he was and simultaneously desire to have all his wounds exposed to tender eyes and careful touches. His embarrassment of not being able to ask translated into impulsive self-destruction. 

When Paul took the huge leap and acknowledged they may be something flourishing between them, something larger than friendship. John felt glorious, invincible. As if light shone though holes in his heart and he, maybe for the first time in his whole life, felt complete.

It wasn't long before music and Paul weren't enough to restrain his fears. With The Beatles becoming a phenomena he pondered how long would he manage to hold it all. Girls threw themself all over them, willing and mellow. They had fun but almost every night found them and only them curled together, soft promises muttered between deaf walls.

He began to be scared of losing Paul, then his own mind, everything spiralling into darkness. He recalled breaking down in a middle of an argument, weeping like a pathetic little pansy, wretchedly trying to hold his posture so Paul wouldn't leave him. To his surprise he merely hugged him so tightly it made George's hugs look lousy. Time ceased to exist, nothing mattered except a constant stream of murmured words.

_"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, my beautiful boy, darling boy, sweet, sweet, so sweet. I'd never leave, you know that, don't you? Precious."_

He memorised those words and repeated them often to himself, tasting them and rolling those syllables around. He even wrote them into his notebook so he would never forget.

They hadn't talked about that night, both of them being too puzzled but their relationship transformed into something else. "Blossomed", George said with a twinkle in his eyes, "Lennon is like a flower bathing in the sunshine."

John's cheeks turned crimson in a fear of being mocked but when even Ringo, a sunshine in a human form, gave him a large, toothy grin and told him he was glowing John couldn't help to feel a wave of warmth washing over him. And when his eyes searched Paul's, when they met, he caught him gazing at him lovingly, looking almost proud which meant he definitely overheard their conversation. Instead of looking away, scared of being too close, John felt his lips stretching into a small smile and at that moment there was no burden slumping down his shoulders.

* * *

But of course he wasn't allowed to count on his luck for too long. Not as John Lennon and definitely not as the Beatle. Often he thought whether it was all worth it - herds of screaming girls, noisy reporters asking the same questions over and over, time they had to think like businessmen instead of musicians. Or, rather, that was Paul's job, trust McCartney to dive into scattered documents with juristic-ish gibbering and numbers all over them. He used to mock him but he was glad his partner was like this - solid, responsible - someone who could be trusted and relied on.

  
_"Unlike you."_ Giggled a squeaky and persistent voice in his head.

Then there was a new album in a process of making and good lord, if it didn't make John grit his teeth. He understood the basic principle of recording music but, resembling a stubborn child, he perceived it like an insidious betrayal. In times like those he resembled a pissed goose, hissing at everybody and constantly expressing his annoyance by grumbling under his breath.

Despite his attempts to be present this time his energy'd been crumbling like a vacant house's plastering. He tried to persuade himself it's only natural, artists tend to be drained emotionally and also physically but that same annoying voice was whispering about losing that precious something Paul and him shared.

They didn't touch as much as before, resulting in John slowly stopping feeling like a fragile china, something only Paul managed to evoke in that disorded auburn head. The lack of sex wasn't surprising as his dick showed no interest in getting laid after explaining what made him to use "this" instead of "that" in his last song and whether there could be drawn a relation to one day he spent on the beach at the age of 5.

Instead of contemplating this theory he busied himself with other intrusive thought (first time he actually valued the vibrant palette of his sorrows) because tackling it would imply talking with Paul and, furthermore, owning up to being a crybaby, constantly needing affection. 

_needy, needy needy_

Not only that would feel like clouting his own face but, even when being a selfish bastard, he could see how it'd taken its tool on Paul, too. It didn't matter how much you loved performing and creating, the amount of stress accompanying them would tire even good, old Mozart. Not to mention Paul's willful determination to always deliver something new, extraordinary, to top himself and master everything he had in his head, that truly didn't freshen him up.

They still spent plenty of time together, just two of them, but it wasn't leisure lounging around, not with Paul's mind of a prodigy. If John strained his ears enough he could hear clicking and roaring when yet another melody was born. And though he usually was the type to feel gratitude for dating someone whose genius inspired his own, John couldn't help but compare himself to damsels from french cliché novels, being bored in their houses while their husbands belonged to fervid visitors of flagitious brothels.

Of course he knew his situation was, ehm, _different_ but the relieve he received from simply doodling himself dressed in a crinoline, sporting a 1800s hairstyle and carrying a parasol, well, that was immense. 

He would spend ages drawing himself as Botticelli's Venus to forget that the interior of his head was inspired by Bosch.

No sense whatsoever, just murky colours, screaming creatures and various objects nobody had seen before.

And those dreams he started to have again, teetering on the verge of bring nightmares but not yet. He sourly noted he had to get really soft in last years as he no longer needed Prometheus-inspired plot to crap his pants when snippets of his real life worked just fine.

For instance the ongoing one was peculiar. His whole life flashing under his lids, his own voice narrating his own thoughts? Jesus Christ on the cross, DID HE DIE? Or perhaps he made it to hell, listening to his voice being the worst punishment he could think of.

He tried to wiggle and wake up, suddenly remembering an article about lucid dreams but nothing happened. He was still stuck in his own head during a dream in which his own head's contents were displayed and inspected on something akin to a fairy-tale meadow but make it Los Angeles.

A snarling howl left his lungs but nothing happened apart from his throat getting itchy.

"Marvelous." He signed, then yelled the same thing over and over. Maybe he would gain a sore throat in real life, he pondered, he could use a day or two off.

Gradually the volume of his screams increased and he finally put in use the technique he learn from all those self-improvement books he used as toilet decorations.

**"Whenever you feel like cursing or yelling vulgar words opt for positive adjectives or nouns instead to stimulate your mind. Believe in power of words and thoughts. Aim to be better."**

That he did. Repeatedly. He would very likely spend the rest of the dream? death? doing exactly this if it wasn't for a lazy voice suddenly resonating behind him.

"Yeah, sure, wait a minute, a moment, would you? Some idiot is screaming like crazy again. Of course it has to be me, you now how it is. Unbeliable." John whisked around just in time to see a centaur, rolling his eyes and snapping shut his motorola RAZR phone with an outrageous click.

For a second neither of them uttered a word and it seemed like those scenes from fantasy movies whenever the chosen one met a mythological creature. That was till the half horse gave John a sharp once-over and, bringing one hand to his hip, spat: "What the hell are ye looking at? Wanna experience my new pepper spray, now, do you?"

He frantically dived the other limb into a linen bag, a pair of pink-glittery sunglasses falling to the grass, to victoriously point the closure of a small bottle to the direction of John's eyes. His quiff moved a little, baring bushy eyebrows and John couldn't help but squeak in surprise.

"George?" 

The centaur stilled in his movement, the hand clutching the pepper spray relaxing, shifting his weight from one hoof to the other.

"John?"

He opened his mouth to approve but George toppled to his back, limbs kicking the air as if he was riding a bike, laughing like a maniac. 

"Ahahah, this-" he hiccupped, made an attempt to get up but another giggle erupted out of his chest, "-god, yer dreaming, and this, THIS-" another 5 minutes of emetic sounds passed by, "-this is how you turn up? IN MY OWN DREAM?"

John, ever the hot-head, narrowed his eyes on his band mate. "If anything it's my dream, don't you have some tap-dancing lessons to attend?"

George shrugged his bony shoulders, picked up his lenses and planted them firmly on his nose. Then, sauntering closer, he declared a stiff-necked "whatever" before, every inch the same little cunt he sometimes was, kicking up his legs, aiming precisely for John's groin.

Being almost 30 and not having experienced a _full-nut jab_ was definitely a thing to regret as nothing could had prepared him the worst pain possible. A logical part of him, if it existed, told him it was much worse, seeing it was his nightmare after all and those aren't known for being full of rainbows. Still, his whole body felt like burning from inside and he wished he could just cease to exist, to dream. Colourful splotches surrounded him and tugged at his eyelids until there was only darkness left.

* * *

He woke up to the sound of waves, warm wind caressing his cheeks.

He was lying on sand and there were delicate fingers raking through the strands of his hair. Then a scent as old as John's first memories tickled his nose and his eyes shot wide open.

There, hair shining in a dim moonlight, lips pinker than when she belonged to his world, sat his mother.

She wasn't looking at him directly, her eyes following the backdrop, but upon feeling him stir her eyes found his, smile plastered on her lips.

"The first time I've seen you awake in so many years." Her voice was exactly like he remembered - soft, fresh, full of life. The last making him wince. 

_dead, deceased, burnt, non-existent, not-breathing_

The first week after her death he used to write adjectives like that all around drawings of her. 

"Mum?"

He whispered, careful to not frightened her away. To destroy that moment as he usually did.

She didn't answer but her fingertips grazed his cheek as if she, too, was afraid and then her hand rested on his forehead only to slide down to his shoulder, slowly lifting him up to a sitting position.

They sat there, mother and son, son and mother, wind playing with the same reddish hair, glimpses of the same pale skin.

John adored water in its wild form. Seas and oceans and lakes as opposed to stale ponds and pools. He felt his mind being elevated, his thoughts expanding and giving him time to breathe. If he ever drowned it'd feel like coming home. 

"You are a man now." His mother's words shook him out of his trans. "So many years. So little for me."

He hugged his knees to his chest, casting her a side-glance. "This is fucked up."

He meant to say it irritatingly but it came out like a tiny sob and he could feel tears hoarding when Julia hummed in reply.

"How is the new CD going?"

His mouth was agape for what felt like hours then he gave a shrug. "'S alright."

She smiled at him, sadly and contently at the same time, scooped some sand with her hand and let it fall down, closing her eyes. "I liked the song you wrote for me. Ocean hair and windy smile." She chuckled. "I'm glad you haven't forget. The best present a mother can ask for."

Wet patches were created tears, he licked his lips and it felt like downing down the whole ocean. "I could never do that, y'know, even if I wished."

She nodded and he wondered if she was crying to or he saw his own sorrow reflecting on her face. He fumbled with his fingers awkwardly before taking a deep breath and enveloped his mother in a hug. 

She smelled like lavender and a garden full of wild flowers during a sunny day. He grasped the fabric of her dress and buried his face in the crook of her neck like he used to do as a little boy. He heard her gasp and laugh a little before her arms encircled his form, their tears mixing.

They went for a stroll, feet digging into wet sand. Talking, talking, talking. Julia knew many things, had seen many things and the idea of her, his mother, actually paying attention to him made him giddy.

_she cares she cares she cares_

Finally they decided to sit again, John automatically collapsing down, making himself comfortable on his back.

"So,-" he began, his voice slightly wavering. "-you've watched me sleeping a lot then?" He tried to sound suave about it, like it didn't mean anything to him, _like he didn't care._

"Of course." It was firm and kind and he felt stupid to even doubting it for a second. 

"Bloody hard to get to you," she smiled, "with that head of yours keeping you on your toes. Such a precious mind with so many monsters crawling everywhere." She pecked him on the cheek, somehow this motherly gesture reminded him of Paul, the softness and emotions within the simple gesture.

A realisation hit him and he scrambled to sit. "What about Mary? Mary McCartney? Have you, ehm, have you met her?"

His face fell when she shook her head, he wished he could tell Paul his mum was there, safe and sound, and watching. Guarding.

"It doesn't work like that, Johnny, love. I'm dead, aye, and still can't work it out. So many years and not even my parents decided to say hi." She laughed bitterly. "I hope I'm not waiting here for Mimi, that would certainly be the death of me."

A moment of silence followed, making John realise this wouldn't last forever. And he had to ask, had to know.

"But she watches him, right? Mary. She does watch after Paul and Mike like you do. And George, do you think he waits for Mimi?" 

Julia heard her little Johnny, her own memories fogging her mind, he'd always been so witty, so eager to learn, so many questions. She blinked new tears away and cleared her throat. 

"Of course. If I can do it, she's been doing it too. Much better than me. I haven't given you many song ideas, have I? Apart from being dead." John nodded in understatement and then smiled. "I'll try to tell him that, about Mary and you, I think he deserves to know. He's always so composed." After a while he voiced, voice hushed, what'd tortured him lately. "Not like me, you know."

His mum's hands squeezed his. "Don't say that, Paul wouldn't have anything of it. You are different. And so brilliant together, such a nice couple, powerful partners. You make me very proud and very sad because I cannot be there, I'm incapable of reaching you in the world I no longer belong to." She tugged a curl behind her ear and took a deep breath. "I know it bothers you, the fact he doesn't touch you like before but I wonder whether he feels scared as you do. Of being intimate, vulnerable. And you, my dearest boy, have you seen yourself sometimes? Tongue sharper than a guillotine."

John, laying again, cackled at the last remark. He knew, he knew. He listened to Julia's laughter and the sound of crashing waves. 

"I love you, you know that, mum? This is the best dream I've had. We should do it often." 

"Deal." Their hands met and he felt jaded, unable to hold his eyes open he slowly drifted to sleep, Julia's singing accompanying him.

Smooth lips kissed him on the nose and the last thing he heard was his mum telling him uncle George's favourite song was _She's So Heavy_.

His body was heavy, soft grass with beads of dew soothing his hot skin. He longed to get up, to see the ocean one more time, to kiss his mum and to give her a proper good bye. He wanted to scream and rub his skin till blood would appear.

Instead he hadn't move an inch, his tears flowing back to the ocean and, despite everything stated above, he felt serene. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thamks for reading, hope you didn't lose your precious brain cells or hope in humanity
> 
> the next chapter should be more normal, as in no centaurs or any similar bollocks, but I don't feel like swearing on my granny's life 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides to talk about his emotions but it doesn't go as smoothly as he'd envisioned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folks, guess who decided to actually finish this

John fancied himself a man capable of finding pleasure in simple things - a freshly made cup of coffee, the way sun coloured everything in the late afternoon, a purring cat willing to be cuddled, _being an annoying dick_ , as Stuart once remarked. Waking up at 6 am was not one of those things.

Especially after a dream like that.

The process of rewaking felt like a rebirth of a phoenix, except it would end with a sad little pile of ashes instead of a spry bird. More like a heap of shit, John pondered as he focused all his energy to open at least on of his eyes, immediately hissing upon gazing into a sharp light. Sun was overrated anyway.

Despite being lazy enough to make his cat Pippin look like a bloody athlete, lying around didn't seem half as appealing as it usually did, not with constant images from his dream flashing before his eyes.   
He didn't want to relive all emotions he experienced but a small part of him encouraged him to do exactly that - to see if he could remember Julia's smile or the softness of her hair. 

Knowing himself enough to be familiar with how wicked his own mind could be as an opponent, he opted for grabbing his journal and a pen, fully prepared to capture what he wanted to treasure.

After grumpily drawing in every single curtain in his apartment (to establish dominance in this sun-ruled world), he sat himself on the floor, a steaming mug of tea by his side and a meowing feline prodding at his bare feet, turning fully instrospective. Only this time ready to scrutinize every single content and not to get caught up with a first intrusive thought.

If an atom bomb was fired right next to him, he wouldn't bat an eye.

* * *

  
A tug of sharp backpain was enough to interrupt his art-inspired trans. "Growing old, aren't we?" He mused to himself, dramatic groans accompanying his attempts of getting up. 

Only when he decided to spare his clock a look it dawned on him he'd been sitting on his bum for almost 5 hours. 

Now was the perfect time for a panic attack as a dinner with Paul would be in 6 hours, and HE HADN'T PREPARED ANY STRATEGY YET.

To release some of the bottled up nervous energy he began dawdle back and forth, cursing loudly when he awkwardly bumped in a standing lamp which seemed to wake up a beast in his cat who, after finishing his balls-licking routine, decided to contribute with high-pitched screeching. 

And once again John Lennon wished for everything to stop.

Sufficient to say it did not, and he, albeit reluctantly, moved to feed Pippin who appeared to be on the verge of losing his mind, whiskers twitching and John was sure he would be red as a baboon's arse if it wasn't for the fluffy white fur. 

Suddenly taking in account his own empty stomach as well as the layer of sweat covering his body, he had to postpone the daydreaming session about his cat prancing around starkers in order to **get a grip**. Whatever that meant.

Droplets of water reminded him of his mother, he wallowed in that bittersweet warmth for a tad bit longer, replaying their dialogue. Eventually his mind stumbled upon a particular feeling and all he could think of was Paul.

Apparently taking a grip meant to get his boyfriend to understand what their relationship meant to him. What he mean to him - as a friend, partner, fellow musician, muse.

Spread on his bed, hot shower just a memory, he rummaged through all words he could say with a scrutiny so untypical for Lennon. Eyes closed, brows slightly furrowed in concentration he tried to envision the whole scene - from a dimly lit living room to the way the corners of Paul's eyes crinkled when he laughed - but it all felt dull and almost as if he watched a stupid sitcom rather than possible events from his own life.

He lit himself a cigarette, probably his 40th that day, as a pathetic attempt at grounding himself. Then decided to open a window as the plumes of smoke only contributed to his already fogged mind.

_Bloody fucking hell. How do those funny people in romantic movies manage to morph they feelings into words so effortlessly? What an awful propaganda. Even Darcy managed to woo Elizabeth without sounding like a baby. Well, granted, he sounded like a moron but that was only positive, wasn't it? Since John himself could be quite a delight to be around. After all, Paul could write a book that. Maybe couple of them and a musical as a bonus._

Frantically rubbing his nose, he tried to calm himself once again and briefly regretted not reading that sappy article about what points on your feet to press to prevent anxiety. He almost contemplated calling Mimi to ask, she'd been engrossed with alternative medicine lately, but decided against it as soon as he realised it was a high time to dandify himself.

Absent-mindedly he grasped his sketch-book and one loud bye later (dedicated to no one as Pippin apparently didn't give a damn) his mission began. 

Sure, he imagined it differently, without sprinting like Jesse Owens after he'd spent to much time picking up the right bouquet for Paul. He wasn't even sure if it was a good idea, taking in account how often George bombarded anybody near him with endless supplies of fresh flowers. Next mishap being his fashion choices, how on earth should he know what garment to put on to impress, be comfortable and simultaneously not getting sweaty after 10 minutes of running. Undoing the first 2 buttons of his black shirt he made a mental note to ask Stuart to ask Astrid to give him some vogue tips. Who else should posses this kind of knowledge if not a person wearing black, long sleeves and equally long trousers in temperatures exceeding 30° C.

Those jokey little thoughts had managed to keep him entertained the entire way to Paul's house. But once stood in front of the front door his body decided to take the piss out of him, if the sudden wave of sweat was anything to go by.

He waited for 5 minutes, praying to all gods his heart would come to its senses, and he wouldn't get a stroke in the middle of his date, before he decided to ring the bell and counted seconds between the beginning of Martha's distant barking and the long awaited appearance of Paul.

* * *

  
It took 20 seconds. Could be years even, he didn't know. But a chuckle still escaped his lips upon hearing a high-pitched voice, the one Paul always pulled when Martha decided to sabotage his training. He even tried to talk like this to John's cat, the feline remaining unimpressed. Maybe it wouldn't be that awful, expectations were always worse than reality. He'd been holding to this theory till the moment the door flew open and his gaze was met by a pair of huge, hazel eyes. 

Paul was in front of him, one of his lanky legs casually preventing a ball of fur from escaping. He was wearing tight formal slacks and a cozy-looking sweatshirt, his cheeks were tinted pink, presumably the result of him jumping around in the kitchen but John had no intent to mock him for his house-wife skills, not when he looked every inch the guy he'd fallen for all the years ago.

What was even worse he represented the future John wanted, had been hoping for. It was this moment, Paul blocking the door while trying to smuggle his boyfriend in, the evening London buzzing in the background, when John realised how much this dork meant to him. How much he could lose.

He became painfully aware of their greeting being the first hurdle. They always experienced this weird discomfort after not seeing each other for a while. Probably because they were so used to spend time together that once they didn't have the opportunity to, they were different people for the time given. And when they returned home, both figuratively and literally, as they were each other's homes, they rather opted for some kind of charade.

This time John pretended to dance like a madman and once safely in a small hallway it was a brief but sweet kiss on the lips. Hello, darling. Hi, Hello. and then he felt himself being maneuvered to a romantically arranged table, Paul, ever the romantic, liked to pretend they hosted a tea party in the 1800s. Who was John to complain?

Actually, speaking of complaining, John, well-known for his short attention span, couldn't wait for the dinner being over. As delicious as the food Paul prepared was, he couldn't wait to get to the other part of their cosy date. THE MOVIE. He figured it'd be the perfect time to start talking about what'd been whirling inside his head - both of them relaxed, stomachs full (in John's case half full), lightly touching... 

"Something wrong, Johnny, luv?" Paul murmured but to John it was like a siren's roar. He cleared his throat and figuring he had to daydream again he did his best to flash his lover a bright smile, hoping he wouldn't notice the blush creeping up his cheeks. "Nuthin'," he took a swing of his water, swishing it around as if it was fine wine, desperately raking his mind for some witty-make-him-love-me-more retort. 

"Just happy it's just us again."

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, get a grip, get a grip. You've written a book, haven't you? GET A GRIP." John's mind began to scream and he winced, feeling his ears burning with shame.

He was just imagining himself digging a simple hole to end the whole fiasco, when a hand splattered itself around his shoulder, accompanied by a pair of soft lips pressing to his cheek. 

"Me too."

And with that Paul was up on his legs, frantically getting all plates to the kitchen, dirty dishes being one of the most appalling things in the world of McCartney's.

* * *

They were now sprawled on a fancy sofa, a romantic movie, whose plot was of no interest for John, humming softly. Initially they could be found in a more cuddling-friendly position, Paul having John's head in the crook of his neck, petting his hair involuntarily, but John couldn't stay still and he opted for occupying the other end of the couch. And getting grumpier by every second.

He couldn't believe he was about to talk his heart out to someone who made squealing noises every single time a dog of the main character appeared.

He tried to delicately shift his attention to himself, coughing, sighing and even moving to nudge Paul's thigh with his finger, who took it and began to idly play with John's fingers, absent-mindedly kissing his knuckles. 

John wanted to stomp his feet as this was nothing he imagined. Taking a deep but quiet breath he focused on thinking of some opening sentence, something he could ward himself off. 

"Paul, we have to talk."

Only when he uttered those words a bit louder than people in the movie, the usual meaning of them hit him. He immediately decided to pay attention to anything he'd say in future, something many people had advised him to do. 

He reluctantly lifted his gaze and was met with the sign of Paul, his Paulie, looking pale, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

"P-pardon?" 

John cursed under his breath and decided to fight his initial urge to just run away, preferably kicking couple of things on his way out, maybe getting shitfaced as well.

"No, not like that."

Surprisingly that didn't make Paul any calmer and his brows furrowed as he was trying to grasp what the heck was John talking about.

John shuffled closer, counting quietly as George once taught him. "I'm not breaking up with you or suggesting we should end this," his hand vaguely danced between his bodies, hoping Paul would maybe say something in return, a stupid joke, anything but he was silent and John began to sweat again.

"Not like, ehm, like breaking up as in us not, ehm, being together, more like, like..." He trailed off, defeatedly, and after a minute of him opening and closing his mouth, resembling a dumb fish, he decided to close it, forget, just pretend nothing happened.

Longest 15 minutes of his life followed. John inspecting his fingertips, thinking about a story about prostitutes who hid tiny razors under their nails, and were therefore able to kill themself when arrested. He didn't dare to look at Paul, at least directly, but from his peripheral vision he was aware of him sitting stiffly, getting up to turn the telly off, then sitting stiffly again. After years of friendship and dating it was quite safe to assume he was sporting his blank face expression. That one he used when something demanding an emotional response occurred. 

Which was exactly what John'd wanted to avoid. And now he was probably on the verge of being single, not to mention the break-down he could very well imagine. "Excellent job, Lennon, as per usual." He mockingly patted his shoulder, trying to hold off tears.

That was till he heard a faint chuckle. Losing the trail of thoughts, his head snapped up, being laughed at his worst fear, but he found Paul looking disheveled and if he didn't know him better, he would assume he wasn't that far from weeping himself.

Paul run a hand through his fingers before shaking his head fondly. 

"What the hell was that all about?"

And despite John's relieve that he talked to him (not single, YET) his ego did that formidable thing, when it encouraged him to do the exact opposite of what he longed to do. This time, instead of trying to approach the matter from a different angle, his lips puckered and he spoke in a voice much harsher than intended.

"Oh, fuck off, you know exactly what it is all about."

His only luck was that Paul knew about this very Lennon approach towards amything delicate. Had seen it multiple times, John being hurt and turning every drop of it into some feverous aggression. Though being visibly tired, maybe by the long process of recording, maybe by John's immature behaviour, he beckoned him closer, patting a spot right next to him.

Still sour he moved, tongue twitching in his mouth, cruel remarks always prepared, but it was all meaningless compared to the wonderful feeling when Paul immediately wrapped his arms around him and, being the soft lad John was, he curled himself on Paul's lap.

He must drift to sleep for he could swear he heard his mother's laugh. But after he twitched awake abruptly, nothing changed. Could be minutes, could be hours, he was still in Paul's house, the owner snoozing, too, hands grasping John's form gently, preventing him from toppling over.

Carefully as to not wake him up, John turned around to observe his lover's face. Not that he would see anything more than a splotch, mind you, the bad lighting and his flimsy sight making it a challenge, but he was dead sure Paul was gorgeous as ever. 

Not the one to wake up first, he cherished this moment, albeit still a bit shaky, their argument yet to be resolved. Wanting to improve the situation illumination-wise, John slid off and trotted to turn on a bigger lamp and fish his glasses. 

Once back, he self-indugently acknowledged how lucky he was, Paul looked angelic. Save it for his scruff and soft snoring. John run his fingers over his cheek, feeling the softness of it but not wanting to face a fully woken McCartney yet. He contemplated kissing him till he would get annoyed and decided to open his eyes, but it never happened as Martha decided it wasn't a party unless she wasn't contributing and, running fast as if she just learned about her wild ancestors, with a long, impressive jump and a howl she landed on her owner.

"Hazzaff?" Paul wheezed out, body hunching forward on instinct, his lungs probably being squeezed by a dog who could be considered a baby cow. He opened his eyes, looking chaotic and lost for a nanosecond before he patted Martha and shot Lennon, who was having the time of his life, heehawing as a lunatic, which encouraged the dog to show off her vocal rage.

At least Martha was able to collect herself, after 10 minutes of Paul's high-pitched mimesis and one big bone. ("For big, good girls." As Paul described.) And John was reminded why he liked cats so much, at least you could always pick the little shit and put it somewhere else.

Once only distant crunching accompanying them, they were back at gazing themself, having so much to say, but their tongues growing heavier each second.

Eventually John played the fool once again, scooting closer and closer till their bodies were touching, heat emitting.

"Hey", he whispered, daring to sneak his arms around Paul's neck, tugging him down for a kiss.

"Hey," Paul mouthed back, looking somehow dazed. 

"God," John signed, immediately droping 4 smacking kisses to Paul's face. "I really, really missed you."

Paul scrunched his nose, a wrinkle between his brows growing more prominent. "That was it the entire time? You missing me?" He chuckled to himself.

And yes, at that moment John had a faint spectre of him constantly reminding him of that one time "he really, really missed him." And he hoped they would be at least eighty, six decades of Paul not getting bored with him sounded heavenly.

But for now he scrambled a bit till he was straddling Paul, this position didn't serve as an experiment, they'd found themself in the exact one countless times, on coutless ocassions, but it was always sex-motivated.

And though he could feel Paul's dick twitching eagerly when his bum made contact, probably some kind of ego-stroking habit, he decided to fully ignore it and act like a proper adult.

"Course, it's been that the entire time, haven't you noticed?" 

His fingers danced across the sensitive area of Paul's neck, he could feel him swallowing.

"Sorry to remind you, but you aren't exactly the most transparent person. Especially when it comes to this."

It wasn't said with annoyance, there was a hint of weariness but also something akin to hope? John couldn't force to lift his gaze, instead he toyed with the collar of Paul's sweater. 

"Didn't want to annoy you." 

He mumbled to the fabric, shutting his eyes, wishing Paul would be kind to act as if nothing happened. Of course, being a nosy bastard he was, an interrogation followed.

"Annoy me? You? How?"

Had it been someone else John would have been already fed up with the discussion, not understanding his mind did not reflect everyone's opinions and getting frustrated for that very reason. But it was Paul, his best mate, his *everything*, so he took a deep breath, stepped over his ego and began.

He talked about feeling alone when there were people around him. About having the urge to not breath so he wouldn't disappoint anybody. His fear of watching himself in the mirror, being reminded he wasn't worthy of someone like Paul. About feeling like glass some days, fragile enough to be destroyed by one fiddly movement, only to switch to decimating everything himself. The drought of his mouth when he realised he was alone in his bed after he told Paul to give him space, his dread of being alone for the rest of his life, or rather, being without Paul as those were the same things in his universe. He shared memories of his worst evenings, when he was drunk and weeping pathetically, only to pretend he was living the life of his fancy. And most importantly he confessed how much did Paul mean to him. He didn't mention his dream as he felt it was for another evening, but he couldn't help to feel as if a huge burden was lifted off his shoulders.

Paul remained quiet the entire time, lightly tracing shapes on John's back, softly kissing his head, cheeks and nose whenever he got chance to. Neither of them knew what was happening till there were sobs echoing and dampness seeping.

It was not the first time they saw the other crying, or cried together, but this time there was no alcohol to blame and they both knew they took a huge step together. As if demonstrating that, Paul hugged John tighter, his lips touching the skin under his ear before slowly sliding his hands over his shoulders, tilting his upper body so they were gazing at each other.

"I love you," he said, smoothing the hairs of John's fringe, small smile tugging at his lips. Ever the mirrored version, John felt his lips stretching, too. And if it wasn't for a sudden urge to blow his nose, he would be happy to continue that, whatever that was, for the rest of his life. 

Nostrils clean as Mimi's fancy china, he sat himself back, this time reaching for Paul to draw him to his lap, reversing the dynamic, so to speak. 

Now feeling much lighter, he realised Paul hadn't babbled for at least an hour, something that happened scarcely. He let his hands roam over his back, softly mapping the swell of his arse, only to bring one of them up, returning the favour of fixing unruly hairs.

"Love you too," he kissed the corner of his mouth. "Would be lost with you, barely there." 

He could feel Paul melting into his touch, stress neither of them had recognised before slowly vanishing. He continued his ministrations till Paul's head grew heavy and a his breaths deep. He sat there for an additional hour, making sure he wouldn't wake up, before scooping him bride-style and getting both of them to the bedroom where, sprawled on her back like a giant hog, was Martha. 

It must be his lucky day as she didn't throw a tantrum and obediently left the space for two lovebirds. Nor did Paul stir and after climbing to the bed, John decided to watch him for a while longer, his heart fluttering as he right away collapsed to John's chest, whispering nonexistent words and hugging him. His eye lashes were tickling his chin and he couldn't help but drop a few kisses to dark, shiny hair.

"Tommorow," he pondered sleepily, "I had to ask him about his fears, tommorow." 

  
He dreamed of soft waves and shiny stars, his mother was running besides him and he knew, despite being dead to the world, he would show Paul the painting, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "it ain't much but it's honest work" sums it up perfectly, I didn't plan on writing a shit this long, but again, my brain has its ways :)) + I had not time to triple-check it, which gives me anxiety, but ignore any errors or other mistakes, thank ye kindly
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated,  
> naturally, and that's that, I have something smut-ish in my draft (so definitely under 3k as I can't come up with enough synonyms for a word penis) but till then live long and prosper, you know the drill


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